


Stronger

by Luniana



Series: New York Pack [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Gen, M/M, Possibly Pre-Slash, Were-Creatures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 20:25:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2665238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luniana/pseuds/Luniana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint awakens in the den of the New York pack, and to his surprise, the Alpha has an offer he doesn't think he can refuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stronger

It was quiet and cool. There was indirect sunlight against his eyelids. Somewhere nearby a window was open allowing birdsong and a sweet breeze to reach him. He lay somewhere soft and clean, on his back, tucked in under blankets, his arms free and laying on his chest.

He kept his eyes closed, his breathing even, and waited, assessing his own condition. His hands and feet felt loosely bandaged and his body ached all over.

There were no immediate scents in the room, no sound of others breathing. They had been there though. Coulson and his two seconds. And a fourth person, someone who smelled of antiseptic and deep earth.

Opening his eyes, still not moving, he surveyed the room. Three exits. Two windows with gauzy white curtains tempering the sunlight and one door, just slightly ajar, hinting at a hallway beyond. The window closest to him was open, just a thin screen between him and the outside. The bed he lay on was largest he’d seen since childhood with crisp cream coloured sheets and a chocolate brown duvet. The room was sparsely furnished, but functional. A desk, two bedside tables, a long and tall dresser and in the corner, near the door, stood two wing chairs next to a long coffee table.

Judging by the sun and his internal clock it was likely late morning. Someone had left a glass of water on the bedside table with a straw in it. Condensation beaded the outside of the glass. All his muscles screamed in the attempt, but he sat up and emptied the glass without making a sound.

The open window had masked it, but as he sat there, it hit him. Somewhere outside the door there was bacon. Freshly cooked bacon, and brewed coffee, not that instant shit he’d been drinking while on the run. Carefully, silently, he slipped out of bed. They’d left him in his boxers but his jeans and t-shirt were gone.   His feet protested the slow, careful, silent steps, but he moved towards the door, spotting a small pile of clothes on the long dresser. An athletic t-shirt, the emblem long washed into obscurity and a pair of jogging pants waited there for him, smelling of fabric softener.

It took a lot of effort to get dressed silently, doubly so with his body aching and his hands wrapped in gauze. He was ridiculously proud of himself when he managed it, and firmly ignored the desire to slide right back into the stupidly large bed he’d woken up in. He was sweating, regretting the empty glass laying amongst the bed sheets, but he had to push on, figure out what was going on.

Getting to the door was a breeze compared to getting dressed. He cursed the door, however, as he’d never squeeze out without moving it first, and he damn well was not going to climb out the window. He was alive, he had been brought here, cared for…he could do this much. And he could smell the bacon and coffee more clearly now, damnit. He could also smell the New York pack out there too, but faint, not immediate, passings in the hall. Coulson more so than the others.

Opening the door just enough that he could see he scanned the hallway. He stood on an upper floor landing, three other doors along the hall, all closed. Across from ‘his’ door was a small open area lined half in windows, half in book shelves with two large black leather sofas sitting invitingly in the sunlight. Drawing back slightly he squinted into the crack between the door and the wall so he could see beyond the door. A large set of stairs with heavy wooden bannisters descended to the first floor. Anyone could be waiting down there, out of sight from where he stood.

Curiosity eventually won out and he pushed the door open just enough to squeeze himself through. He stepped silently, pulling the door closed to the exact position it had been left for him. He took one step away from the door and managed not to flinch when he spotted the figure standing at the bottom of the stairs.

Dress pants, a short-sleeved collared shirt, receding hairline, cool unaffected air and a coffee mug in one hand. He resembled the high-powered lawyers in the crazy cop drama’s that Natasha always used to watch, but there was no mistaking the power in those arms, the strength in the man’s shoulders. This was no pencil pusher. It was his eyes that identified him to Clint, however, Clint would never forget those eyes. “Coulson, sir.”

“Good to see you up, Barton.” The man responded, his expression bland. “How are you feeling?”

Clink blinked. Of course he’d know who Clint was. It was rumored among strays that each pack kept records of any strays that crossed their paths. “A little sore, sir.” He responded blandly, trying to match Coulson’s unaffected tone. “Thank you.” He held up his bandaged hands.

Coulson nodded. “All we ask is that you try not to open any wounds again. Doctor Banner hates redoing his work. He tends to be less…gentle the second time around.” Coulson almost smiled at that, but Clint knew the Enforcer was watching him, judging him.

“Understood, sir.” Clint nodded sharply. He couldn’t promise anything, but he understood.

“Are you hungry? Breakfast is ready.” Coulson gestured away with his coffee cup, somewhere beyond the bottom of the stairs.

“I’d like that, sir.” When had he last eaten? He couldn’t be sure.

At Coulson’s nod he came down the stairs. He was still careful, but knew he’d be chided if he tried to be silent, potentially injuring himself to no benefit. Coulson waited for him to arrive on the warm slate floor before leading the way to the left, around the stairs and through a swinging wooden door into a monstrously huge kitchen.

The sun streamed in through a line of huge windows set just above a long counter dotted with small appliances. A huge gas stove sat against the far wall with the largest refrigerator Clint had ever seen not far away. An island topped with woodblock stood in the center while closer to the swinging door an eight-seat kitchen table loaded with breakfast foods welcomed them. To the right stood a large wooden hutch loaded with dishes and beyond it another swinging door and a third door of fogged glass that appeared to lead outside.

“Help yourself.” Coulson moved into the kitchen and topped up his coffee from a machine that looked like it would fit better in a Starbucks than on a kitchen counter.

Clint didn’t move. “What about the others?” He’d been part of a psudo-pack once, he knew the rules, and he wouldn’t be tricked into jumping the line, not on his first day.

Coulson lifted his eyebrows, cup halfway to his mouth. “We’ve all eaten, that’s all for you.”

Clint was pretty sure he’d schooled his expression appropriately at this shocking pronouncement. He’d never seen this much food in one place, at one time, let alone have it all be there for him. When he glanced at the man and saw the tiniest of creases in the corner of his mouth, like a moment away from a smile, he knew he hadn’t. He tried not to feel embarrassed as he pulled out a chair and picked up a plate. Coulson had acquired a Starkpad from the countertop and was apparently reading something while drinking his coffee. Clint ate quietly, but quickly, savoring the fresh slices of ham and crisp bacon the most. When Coulson turned away to refill his cup Clint quickly vanished two small oranges and an apple into the pockets of his borrowed pants without thought.

Coulson’s gaze didn’t return to him until he’d set down his fork and wiped his mouth with the fucking cloth napkin that had been next to the plates. Clint had decimated the food on the table, truthfully eating more than he thought he’d ever be able to eat and, for the first time in potentially ever, felt completely full.

“Let’s go meet Fury.” Coulson set down the tablet while Clint stood and followed him back out of the kitchen they way they’d entered.

Coulson lead the way through the foyer at the foot of the stairs to a set of large, heavy, double doors which seemed to lead to a new wing to what Clint was learning was an enormous house. The hall had two doors set at even spaces on either side with a second set of double doors at the end, but one of them was slightly ajar. Coulson went straight to the open door and walked in without knocking.

Fury’s office was very spacious and filled with dark heavy wood furniture and heavy floor-to-ceiling forest green curtains blocked out any outside light. Off to one side was an empty fire place set in dark bricks with two large wing-back chairs, similar to the pair in Clint’s borrowed room, set before them. Fury’s desk was nearly as long as a man was tall with a screen and keyboard set to one side. There were no chairs set in front of the desk, though a small conference table stood off to one side in a dark corner.

Fury himself sat behind his imposing desk looking down at a tablet just like the one Coulson had been looking at in the kitchen. Even seated he was an imposing figure in a black turtle-neck sweater and black eye patch. Fury ignored them both as they entered and Clint moved to stand a respectful distance in front of the pack leader’s desk. Clint was aware of Coulson’s keen gaze on his back, but ignored it, waiting for acknowledgment. Finally Fury tapped at his tablet before setting it down on the desk in front of himself. He trained one amber eye on Clint and carefully folded his hands in front of himself. “Clint Barton.” He rumbled, his face impassive. “Youngest of the Brother’s Stray pack.” Clint forced himself not to react to the unknown moniker placed on his brother’s little band. “Why are you here Barton?”

Clint felt himself licking his lips in nervousness and tried not to fidget under the Alpha’s gaze. He also fought the urge to kneel like Barney had often demanded. Fury was not Barney. “I want to join your pack, sir.” He said at last.

Fury gave him one long blink. “Is that so.” He sat back in his black leather rolling chair, steepling his fingers. “Mr. Barton. Let’s get some things straight. I do not run my pack like a fucking family. There are no group hugs and family vacations in New York state. I run my pack like a business. Everyone had a role, has a job to do, to keep my state peaceful and running smoothly.” Fury paused, watching him.

Clint couldn’t help it. “I left my degree in graphic design in my other pair of jeans, sir.” He felt a flippant smirk touch his lips, trying to hide his nervousness while still bracing himself for the obvious rejection that was to come. Why hadn’t they just killed him if they had no place for him?

To his surprise Fury rewarded him with the tiniest smirk. “Lucky for you, this pack happens to be hiring.” Fury was watching him very carefully now. “Rumor has it you’re a crack shot.”

“I am sir.” He tried to sound like he was present a fact, not boasting, which he wasn’t.

“Coulson needs someone to watch his back. Lately the masses have been getting restless, strays getting brave, testing the waters around the state.” Fury’s frown deepened. “I know Coulson can hold his own.” Fury glanced over Clint’s shoulder and then back to Clint. “But I’d sleep better at night knowing he had someone to watch his back.” Another pregnant pause. “Someone I can trust.”

“Sir, I would like the opportunity to gain that trust. And keep it.” This was too easy. Clint couldn’t help it, feeling that something was wrong. Joining the New York pack? It shouldn’t be this easy.

“I’m going to give you that, one, chance.” Fury leaned forward again. “But you have a lot to learn and unlearn, if our records about you and you brother’s little band of fuckups are true.” Fury’s eye narrowed, but Clint didn’t object to the description. “I also want you eating properly and strength training.”

Clint couldn’t help but bristle. “Sir, are you suggesting that I’m not strong?”

Fury looked unimpressed. “I would never suggest that the wolf who fucking galloped halfway across the state in a day wasn’t strong. I am telling you that, in time, you can be stronger.” Fury picked up his tablet once more. “Now get your ass back in bed. You’re no use to me covered in holes.”

Taking that as the dismissal that it was Clint gave a jerky nod, turned and followed Coulson back out into the hallway and on to the foyer.

“Get some rest.” Coulson told him as he moved to climb the stairs back to ‘his’ room. “I’ll leave you some lunch outside your room and Hill or Sitwell will bring you some dinner. There’s a bathroom in the door to the left of your own, should you need it.”

“Thank you, sir.” Clint nodded to the Enforcer before making his way slowly up the stairs. His feet and hands both ached with each beat of his heart now. He actually looked forward to returning to the ridiculously huge bed that awaited him.

“Barton.” Coulson called after him and he turned to meet that blue gaze once more. Coulson was smiling, just a quirk of his lips. “I look forward to seeing what you can do on the firing range. We’ve heard some amazing things.”

Clint’s stomach did a strange flip-flop and he found himself smiling back. “I look forward to beating those rumors into the dust, sir.”

Coulson’s smile got just a touch wider before the older man nodded and disappeared around the stairs towards the kitchen.

Clint let himself back into ‘his’ bedroom and carefully climbed beneath the covers. It was too easy, he knew it, but damned if he wasn’t going to enjoy this huge damn bed as much as he could before he’d be back sleeping in shitty motel 6’s again.  


End file.
